A Very Italian Reunion
by Dawn96
Summary: After hundreds of years living apart, Italy and Romano finally move into a house together, in the heart of their capital. Whether or not they can get along depends on how much of the past they're willing to forgive. A Very Asian Trilogy spin-off.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello! It's been ages but here I am! **

**If any of you have read my Asian Family Trilogy, this is the promised spinoff/sequel that I mentioned!**

**Picture credits go to hetalianstella on Fanpop: **www fanpop com/ clubs / hetalia / images / 36806948 / title / happy-birthday-italy-brothers-fanart

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**1.**

To say that he was excited was an understatement. Italy was _ecstatic. _

"The last time I lived with Romano was six hundred years ago, can you believe that? It's so crazy! The house we bought is in Rome which is really weird because I've never lived in Rome before; I always lived in Venice or Milan and Romano always lived in Napoli but I think there was this time he was in Rome but he didn't invite me over because he was angry and there was a war and-"

_"Italy-san," _Kiku's weary voice came from the other side of the phone. "_I hope you understand that it is midnight in Tokyo." _

"Whaaaat?" Italy's eyes, believe it or not, widened. "That's so funny because in Roma it's really bright and sunny and its summertime so the day is extra long and it's also really, really hot." Italy looked at the phone. "Japan?"

Japan jolted mid-snore. "_Hai!"_

"You and Germany will have to come over and we have to spend time together! Just like the old times, right? And we'll all sleep together because I really miss you and I think the closer you are to people the better."

"_Uh, yes… I agree. Italy-san, if it's not too rude to ask, but can I please-"_

"I'll have to stock up on pasta so that you all don't go hungry; three people eat a lot more than one person, you know. Oh! But this time, it'll be four people because I'll be living with Romano and guess what his favourite food is? Pasta! Just like me! We're so similar and I'm really excited and I'm so happy I get to live with my brother again, don't you think so too? Because I think so and I think Romano's also happy- even though he didn't really answer any of my phone calls and apparently Spain had to drag him out of Madrid and force him on the train because he didn't…" Italy voice trailed until he quieted. _Because he didn't want to come. _

But Italy didn't want to think of that. He kept that thought buried in the deepest, darkest pit of his mind because he couldn't bear thinking about it.

Japan snored on the other side of the line. Italy smiled softly, "_Buona note, _Kiku," and hung the phone on its peg.

He picked up his small suitcase- the rest had been delivered to the house this morning- and waited outside the train station. He winked at a few girls, flirted with one, and smoked through two lazy cigarettes until he caught sight of a small, compact rental beeping at him.

Italy felt his heart burst into a thousand radiant suns. He sprinted, forgetting his suitcase behind, and hugged a laughing Hungary through the window.

And got viciously whacked on the head by a miffed Austria, who sat in the passenger seat. "Shoving yourself into a car is highly improper! Has living with me for two hundred years taught you nothing?"

"Mr Austria!" Italy crawled forward to kiss Austria's cheeks. "I didn't know you'd come too!" The last time Austria picked him up at a train station it had been during the war and Austria, newly divorced, wheelchair-bound and gaunt, didn't look half as alive as he did now. "You look so pretty! So shiny! Is it because you're with Ms Hungary? Ooooh~! Kissy-kissy-"

Austria went puce. Hungary pinched Italy's cheeks. "Don't tease the elderly like that, Veneziano."

Italy didn't have any parents- and if he did, he couldn't remember them. His life before he was a nation was a blur, an empty memory. But, from what he saw of his people, of life, a warm feeling inside his heart bloomed at the sight of Austria and Hungary together… It reminded him of his childhood amidst Germanic forests and monastic fortresses.

Italy brought in his suitcase and sat in the backseat, but excitement made him sit forward, his head between the shoulders of Hungary, who was driving, and Austria, who kept telling him to sit back lest he shoot through the windscreen.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Roderich, it's not like my driving isn't safe," laughed Hungary. She had her hands behind her head. She was steering with her knees. "See, I'm an expert."

Italy marveled but Austria shrieked, yanked the steering wheel and saved them from almost flying off a bridge. He ordered they stop the car, hyperventilated for a good five minutes and then forced Hungary off the driver's seat.

"Can I drive?" asked Italy.

"_Definitely not!" _shrieked Austria and twisted the key of the car.

"Now, now, Roderich, you know your blood pressure can't take the worrying," Hungary pushed two pills out of a packet and uncapped a bottle of water.

As she popped them into Austria's mouth, Italy noticed the glimmer of a diamond ring. Hungary caught his eye and winked.

Italy beamed. "You're getting married?"

Hungary squealed. "That's right!"

"To Mr Austria?"

"Nope, to Spain!"

The car veered to the right- so suddenly- so sharply- cars honked- people stuck their heads out of the window and swore. Austria looked half terrified, half affronted.

"Blood pressure, Roderich!" said Hungary and then turned to Italy with a wicked smile. "Just joking, of course to Roderich, who else? Although, if Spain suddenly realizes how in love with me he is, I wouldn't mind," she gave a blissful sigh. "He's just so dreamy, with those olive orchard eyes and-"

"I'll have you know that just because Spain is cheerful and laidback doesn't make him an easy spouse," said Austria tersely. "He was brash and had a disgusting habit of hanging his blood-stained axe on the coat hook."

"- I just can't stop staring at his ass."

Italy blinked.

"But, thankfully, that's not my type!" laughed Hungary awkwardly. "Veneziano knows more than anyone that I'm into stuffy aristocrats who still think it's fashionable to wear an ascot in the 20th century."

Italy could remember living in Austria's house and how it had progressively emptied until there was no one left bar Hungary and Italy himself. He could remember the way the wind bellowed through the empty rooms, the iciness of the surrounding forests and the quietude that couldn't be combatted by Italy's singing, Austria's music and Hungary's cheerful spirit. But, he could also remember how close the two older nations had become and how, for months on end, it felt more like he was a child kept safe between the arms of two lovers than an underling forced under the boot of the Hapsburgs.

"I don't understand," said Italy, frowning. "I'm really confused."

Hungary's sparkling green eyes meet his. "Oh?"

"I remember you were really sad in the first war, the one before I met Germany, remember? You were always fighting and you were really sad all the time and you always said you wanted to divorce. And then when the war finished, you asked Britain and America and they let you and I remember Mr Austria being really mad because he didn't want you to divorce but they let you sign that treaty. When I saw you in Budapest that year you said it was better that you were alone because you hated living in Mr Austria's house and that the whole marriage was really bad-"

Austria's face was vacant; Hungary stared owlishly at Italy. Italy felt his heart suddenly thrum in his chest. Oh no. He hadn't meant to bring all that up.

"I mean- I just- it's not that- it's only because if you were really sad before why are you getting married again-" Italy forced his mouth to shut. If only Germany was here, he'd know how to fix all this. "I mean- I'm sorry- that's really bad- please don't not get married because I said all that- I really love weddings and I'm really sorry but I really don't understand why you're going to do it again-"

"It's what we want," said Austria gently. He scrunched his nose to push up his glasses and took a right. "Years ago, the reasons we were married were… different. Difficult. And perhaps, because of that, we spent most of our union hating each other rather than anything else."

Hungary's smile slipped off her face. Italy felt his heart break. He hadn't meant to make her sad. He felt his apologies build up behind his throat.

"I'm sorry-" began Italy.

"Don't be," said Hungary softly. Her smile was back and it was as radiant as the flower tucked behind her ear. "And don't listen to Roderich's dramatic tearjerker monologue." She cupped Italy's face with her rough hand. "The simple reason we're getting married is that we love each other. Easy as that."

"But, the in the past-"

"We got married as nations. But now, we're getting married as people. There's no Hungarian-Austro Empire-"

"Austro-Hungarian," corrected Austria.

"Say that again and I'll have sex with Spain," said Hungary in heartbeat. The car jerked again. "As I was saying: I think it's okay for us to reach out to who we are, as people, not just as countries. Which is why I think it's exciting for you to move in with your brother, _igen?"_

Italy felt himself burst into a thousand suns at the mention of Romano. "I am! I'm really excited! I was so happy I didn't sleep for the whole week! I called Germany and I called Japan and I also called America and then I called big brother France and I tried to call Prussia but Germany said no, I don't know why he said no, but I think Prussia's really funny." It was a long time since he last saw Romano. They steered clear of each other after the Second World War and only started talking after the end of the Cold War. "I really miss him. I wonder if he smells the same? He used to smell like olives and lavender because we used to play in these big, open fields of lavender when we were little and he used to roll around in it."

Then, they would lie next to each other and soak in the setting sun.

They reached the house just at dusk and Italy marveled at the colours. The tinged sky painted the old, creamy stones of the villa in hues of red, pink and blue. It was an old house with a rustic charm that reminded Italy of the narrow, cobblestone streets of Tuscany, the sunlit roofs of Florence and the charming archways of Venice, the city closest to his heart.

"_È così carino!_ It's so pretty! _È come un dipinto_! It's like a painting! Do you think Romano's here already? I'm going to go check!"

He didn't wait for Austria to properly park the car; Italy sprinted across the street and pushed open the gates. He ran up the steps leading to the front door, ready to burst open the doors- only to find them locked.

Italy deflated. Romano wasn't here yet.

His eyes welled with tears. "What if he's not coming? Can we call? Is there a phone inside? I want to call. He's not coming, right?"

"Where are all these tears coming from?" Hungary was lugging Italy's suitcase behind her; a random Italian, who witnessed Italy torpedo out of the car, was yelling at Austria for child negligence. "I'm sure he took a late train or maybe there's a lot of traffic from the station."

Italy swallowed his tears. "_Si. _You're right. Maybe."

Hungary pinched his cheek. "Are you going to show us in?"

That immediately perked him up. "Of course! You're my first guests! _È così divertente!_ That's so fun! I can't wait to tell Germany that I'm a host! You and Mr Austria can be practice for when Germany and Japan stay over!" He fished the key from his pocket and let her in.

The furniture was covered in white sheets and the windows were papered. There was a fine coat of dust on the floors. But the sunset pooled in rays of coloured light and the gasoliers bathed the rooms in a warm glow of rustic orange. The cream coloured walls, the pink archways, the tiled ground, the sloping staircase… didn't quite feel like home.

He missed his house in Venice.

But Italy didn't let it show. He beamed and took Hungary by the hand and raced through the rooms. He didn't want to go upstairs because he didn't want to choose a room just yet. He wanted to do that with his brother. So, he settled in the kitchen and went through the empty cupboards and cabinets, chattering on all the different ingredients he wanted to buy, the street markets he wanted to be familiar with, the herbs he wanted to grow by the windowsill and whether or not he should paint mountains or rivers for the empty spaces on the wall.

Night fell in earnest and Romano still didn't show. When Austria glanced at his watch Italy threw himself at him.

"No! Don't leave me alone, I don't like being all by myself! Ms Hungary said maybe the train was late and I think the train is late and that's why you should wait for just five more minutes!"

"Okay- okay-"

Italy let go and Austria, disoriented, staggered to the couch. Italy felt too nervous to be hungry so he paced around until Hungary let him sit next to her and pulled out a stack of cards from her bag. They played a few card games on the floor until Italy lost interested and decided to lie on the floor instead, like a stray cat on the sidewalk.

He must've fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes, the room was even darker than he remembered. Austria was asleep on the couch, his glasses falling off his nose, and Hungary was asleep on the floor beside him, her head on the pillows of the sofa.

There was a sound of keys in the door and Italy felt his skin prickle, as if five thousand needles suddenly jabbed into him. He scrambled off the floor but came a to a screeching halt before he was within sight of the doorway.

Sure enough, through the frosted glass of the door, he could see the silhouette of two people: taller, stockier Spain and, behind him, the narrow, lean figure of his brother.

"- it won't be too bad."

"Oh yeah?" hissed Romano. "Can you see the future, you stupid bastard? Am I going to suddenly start skipping the fields with my fucking brother, singing fucking carols like a choir boy on Pasqua? He's a fucking lunatic and the last time I saw him, he was-"

"I think it'll be a nice change for you two to finally live together," Spain nonchalantly interjected. "I know you like mooching off me, but I think you'd do well living on your own-"

_"Mooching off you?" _seethed Romano. "If it wasn't for me, you'd be playing campana with a donkey, so broke you'd beg France for his toenails."

"Ah, little Lovi, you always did have a way with words," laughed Spain. "Ah! Found the key." The key grated against the lock until Spain tutted and began digging his pockets again. "Wrong key again. Are you sure you don't have it?"

"Have what?" said Romano in an unconvincingly high voice.

"Lovi," said Spain warningly.

"That voice worked when I was four years old and I didn't know any better. Good fucking luck getting it to work now." Romano crossed his arms and hunched. "I told you before, I'm going to tell you again: _I don't want to fucking be here. _So _take me home." _

"This is your home," said Spain cheerfully.

_"No, it's not!" _

"Ah, Lovi, home isn't a building with four walls. Home is the people you let into your heart."

"Then take me as _far_ _away_ from _here_ as possible!"

"Lovino, you're not making any sense," though, at this point, it didn't seem like Spain was listening. "Ah! Found it."

Spain jostled with the knob. Romano gripped his sleeve. His voice rasped, swollen with tears. "Please. _Please_, I don't want to live here."

Italy felt his breath catch. His insides felt hollow. His excitement turned to ash. His apprehension tasted like cinder.

He could hear Spain sigh. "Let's give it a week, okay? One week. And then, if you need a break, you can stay with me."

Romano didn't relax but he didn't protest either. After a tense silence, Italy heard his brother sigh and then, through the frosted glass, saw Romano pull a key from his pocket. Spain muttered under his breath, twisted the lock and the door slid open.

Italy took a sharp step back. Suddenly, he didn't want to meet his brother. Romano came with Spain and Italy felt oddly alone without anyone behind him. But, before he could scream or dash back to the living room or curl up and cry on the floor, he locked eyes with Romano and felt a hundred thousand emotions at once: ecstatic happiness at seeing his brother again, devastating heartbreak because of what he had heard through the door.

But Italy was going to be like Germany. He was going to collect himself. He was going to think of what he wanted to say. He was going to be mature. He was going to show Romano that he wanted nothing more than for them to be together again.

But, of course, Italy wasn't Germany and the moment he opened his mouth his tears followed suit.

"You didn't want to come?" cried Italy.

Romano went a vicious shade of red. He screamed: "listening at doorways already? Going to fucking report me to that kraut like you did in the fucking war?" before he burst into tears as well.

Italy tried to hug his brother but Romano throttled him the moment Italy was in arm's reach. Spain tried to separate them and the commotion caused Hungary to charge in from the living room. She tried to pry Romano's fingers off but wasn't ready for Italy to try and latch on. Romano's shirt tore. He punched Italy in the eye. Italy tried to hold onto his brother's hair. Austria snored on the couch.

Spain restrained Romano and carted him off to the kitchen. Hungary pulled Italy back to the living room.

"I didn't mean to," wailed Italy. "I heard the door unlocking and I wanted to see if it was him, I promise!" From the kitchen, Romano could be heard screaming that he was going to burn down the entire house and burn Spain on top of it if he didn't get him out. "Maybe I overheard a little bit, but that's because their voices were loud and I couldn't help it! I didn't think of telling Germany- I really didn't- I wasn't going to do it again, I promise- not after last time-"

Italy clamped his mouth shut. He didn't want to think of what happened last time. He didn't want to think of the war. It was a long time ago but suddenly it felt as if it were yesterday.

Italy sniffled. "I want to go back to Venezia."

_"GOOD FUCKING RIDDANCE!" _screamed Romano from the kitchen; apparently, he had overheard. "_GO BACK TO THAT FUCKING CITY WITH YOUR FUCKING CANALS! I'D RATHER CHOKE MY SELF WITH A SPATULA THAN STAY HERE WITH YOU!"_

Romano's screams were suddenly muffled; as if he were screaming through a towel shoved into his mouth.

Hungary put her arm around Italy. "You're coming with us tonight," she said. "Roderich. Roderich, wake up. Wake up, let's go to our hotel, come on." She wiped the tears from Italy's face and cupped his cheek. "Tonight, stay with us until you both cool down. Tomorrow, we'll try again, okay?"

Italy was too hurt to say anything so he simply let her take him out of the house towards the car Austria had parked on the street across them. Austria sleepily asked why Italy was suddenly coming with them and Hungary recounted a rushed, mild version of what had happened.

Italy wilted in the backseat of the car. Just as Austria was about to reverse, they caught sight of Spain running up to them, waving at them to stop.

"_Istenem_, he's gorgeous," sighed Hungary.

Austria threw her a withering glare.

"Oh come on, you can't blame me. Look at him, it's like he's running down a beach, his hair flopping, his skin kissed by the sun, his eyes- okay, I'll stop."

Austria rolled down the window. Spain looped an arm in and grinned. "To be honest, I expected worse."

"He choked Feliciano and threatened to choke himself," said Roderich flatly.

"It's Lovino's way of saying hello," said Spain nonchalantly. He caught Italy's despondent eyes. "I don't know how much you heard, but he was really excited to see you today. Lovino just… becomes a rude little shit when he's surprised, that's all. Don't take it to heart, Feli."

Italy felt his heart ease a bit. "Okay."

"_Bueno!_ We'll see you tomorrow!"

"_Adios_, Antonio," grinned Hungary from the passenger seat.

Instead of pulling away, Spain actually leaned further in, "I like what you've done to your hair. _Muy bonito_. It's a nice length."

Hungary blew him a kiss, "_Gracias, hermoso," _her cheeks dimpled, "your eyes are _bonito_. Greener than a garden-"

"Yes, yes, goodnight," Austria began to roll up the window.

Spain slipped out before the glass guillotined him. He lit a cigarette as he watched them drive away and cheerfully waved before they turned the corner. But Romano was nowhere to be seen. Italy wished, more than anything, for his brother to watch him go as well, to show that he cared.

The drive was quiet, interrupted every so often by Italy's sniffle. Austria cleared his throat.

"For the record, I've always liked your hair," he said stiffly. "No matter the length."

Hungary turned to catch Italy's eye and winked. "Oh? And what else?"

Even in the dark, Italy could see a blush go up Austria's neck. "And- and the colour."

"And what else?"

"Texture."

"… And?"

"I'm pretty sure hair can only be described by those parameters."

Hungary rolled her eyes. "How romantic."

But Italy saw that they were holding hands and, every so often, Austria would give Hungary's fingers a little squeeze. Italy didn't understand what Hungary had said about being people, about not being nations, about the past, about not the past. A part of him wanted to think about why Romano had said what he had said, had acted the way he had acted, but Italy didn't want to. He knew where his thoughts would lead him and it was somewhere he wanted to forget.

So, for the first time, he kept quiet and watched the streetlamps paint yellow streak in the darkness.

* * *

**AN:**

**Of course I had to start the chapter with Japan (as a little nod to my good old Asian Family Trilogy that started all of this off). **

**So, historical notes:**

**I've decided to set this around the late 1900s (?1990) early 2000s where the world has had time to chill after WW1, WW2 and the Cold War hence, our favourite Italian brothers can take the time to move in. **

**I'll be delving more into the history of Italy in the later chapters (so the reunification, the civil war, WW2) but, for this chapter, what's interesting to know is that although Italy started off as an ally to Germany, public unrest and Mussolini's failing popularity were factors that caused Italy to a) surrender to the Allies b) declare war on Germany in 1943. Since Feliciano's so attached to Ludwig, I felt that during the war, Lovino would've been secretly/not-so-secretly been on the opposing side, backing up the resistance, trying to find a way out. **

**As for Austria and Hungary:**

**Their empire officially dissolved after the first world war (hence, Roderich and Elizabeta's divorce), under the Treaties of Saint Germain and Trianon, where the Allies duly separated the two countries and the lands were distributed to Romania, Czechoslovakia, Poland etc… **

**The relationship between Austria and Hungary is complicated at best. Austria only ended up marrying Hungary (1800s) because he was stranded, all alone, after Prussia beat the hell out of him and excluded him from joining the new Germanic unification. So, Austria's union with her was formed with the intention of using Hungary's military strength and power. Although, politically, that was decided, it didn't mean it was what the people wanted. So…**

**In conclusion, their marriage was a lot of Austria looking down on Hungary (for a moment, people were calling Hungary 'Lesser Austria' and you can bet the Hungarians were _pissed)_ and roping her into his wars, and Hungary trying to take any chance to rebel.**

**They were forced under Nazi Germany in WW2 but, in the Cold War (which ended around 1990s), Hungary was behind the Iron Curtain while Austria (too broken to do anything) was under lock and key of Western Europe. **

**But, as people, I always felt that Roderich and Elizabeta went through too much for too long for them to not feeling anything for each other. They had their ups, their downs, hatred, love, anger, frustration, at themselves, at each other, but I think no one knows how to love as much as they do. This time, I'd like to think that a marriage is a promise to themselves that history played it's part but now, it's time for them to play their own. **

**See you all in the next chapter!**

**And please review :D**


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Romano took one long look at him, from top to bottom, before scowling. "What are you trying to say, huh? _Is there something you're trying to prove?"_

"What do you mean?" Italy looked down at his outfit. It was only custom-made Armani paired with comfortable Bottega Veneta loafers. "You don't think the colours match?"

Romano was seething at this point, turning redder and redder, trembling with rage.

"I'll tell you what doesn't match, you potato-loving, jerk-faced, kraut-"

"_Feli!" _Spain suddenly pushed Romano out of the way. He pulled Italy into a joyful hug. "Come in, come in- even though it's actually your house and you should be telling me to come in, haha!" It was the late afternoon and they all agreed (Spain, Austria and Hungary, that is) to meet for lunch in the new house. "_Hola! _Austria-" he pulled Austria, who had expected a calm handshake, into a hug, then, "Hungary, _bella dama_-" and kissed her cheeks.

He whispered something in her ear, olive eyes dancing, and Hungary giggled like a schoolgirl. Italy could hear the wheels in Austria's skull shudder and clang.

The sheets covering the furniture were removed and the floors were dusted, a broom and bag loitering by the corner. When Italy went into the kitchen, he saw a basket of tomatoes; a large bowl of unpeeled shrimp on the counter and plates of sliced lemon, crushed garlic and herbs, waiting by a vat of olive oil.

Italy wrinkled his nose. "I don't like fish, so we're not making any of that. I brought cream and saffron so we can make risotto and I also brought veal for the _cotoletta-"_

Romano, who was angrily smoking by the backdoor of the kitchen, choked on his cigarette. "_What did you fucking say?"_

Italy beamed. So they were on speaking terms after all! "I said that I really don't like fish so I already brought ingredients so we can make a better-"

"I heard you the first time," snapped Romano. "We're going to make fucking seafood so you can stuff that fucking saffron in your ears before I do it for you."

Italy hopped to his brother, frowning. "Why are you so angry? I thought you liked risotto-"

"I'm not angry! Don't say I'm angry!"

"But you're talking really loud and when I heard England talking really loud once, Germany told me he was yelling-"

Romano attacked him. "_Don't fucking say that name in this fucking house or I'm going to fucking cook you for lunch you FUCKING IDIOT-"_

Spain was suddenly between them, hauling Romano off to the corner. "Breathing exercises, Lovi!" he chirped cheerfully. "Deep breath in-"

"_DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO YOU, BASTARD, LET ME GO-"_

"And deep breath out-"

"_OR I'LL PUNCH YOU SO BAD-"_

"Aaaand deep breath in-"

"_YOU WON'T RECOGNIZE YOUR OWN FACE-"_

"Aaaand deep breath out-"

Romano was writhing in Spain's grip. Even though he was still screaming his head off, threatening to smash Spain's skull with a hammer and promising to beat him in his sleep, at least he wasn't screaming at Italy- which was all Italy wanted, really.

Austria and Hungary walked into the kitchen, carrying the bags of ingredients Italy had left in the car- he didn't want to hurt his arms with the effort- and Italy fluttered towards them to begin arranging the herbs.

"I swear to God Almighty, Veneziano," hissed Romano, glaring at him so threateningly Italy actually cowered back. "If I see you take the fucking saffron out of that bag-"

"You mean this saffron?" Italy pulled out the vial.

Romano pelted a tomato at Italy's face. It was warm and soft and ripe and stained his white, custom-made Armani shirt. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, Italy, in eerie calmness, picked up the basket of unpeeled, raw shrimp and dunked it over his brother's head.

"How about we stop this before it gets out of hand-" Austria coughed.

Before Romano wrestled Italy into the barrel of tomatoes.

What followed was mess of screams and cries. No matter how many times Spain tried to cart Romano away, Romano managed to twist away and wrestle Italy to the ground. No matter how many times Hungary tried to pry Italy off, it didn't relent Italy's grip on his brother's hair.

By the end of it, Italy was beaten by his own Bottega Veneta loafers and Romano had saffron shoved into his ears. Romano ended up sobbing and Italy sobbed for making his brother sob.

"I'm sorry, Romano," Italy reached out to hug his brother.

Until Romano bit his arm. So Italy bit him back on neck. They had to be separated again, like boiling water and scalding oil, by a very bruised Spain and a rather amused Hungary.

* * *

"Did you see?" Romano seethed. He was trembling with rage. Steam screeched from his ears. "_Did you fucking see?"_

"Lovino-" started Spain.

"_He fucking did that on purpose! _He wore that stupid outfit and brought those stupid, fancy foods because he wants to prove that he's smarter than me- that fucking idiot, kraut-loving, German _zoccola, sei un rompicoglioni-"_

Spain, nursing a wonderful black eye from where Romano elbowed him in the kitchen, offered him a cigarette.

Veneziano may act like an airheaded idiot, but Romano knew otherwise. His brother showed up in that designer outfit, glistening like some newly polished coin found in the middle of a fucking golden vault of jewels, and had brought ingredients that Romano could never even dream to afford. All to prove that he was richer, smarter, better.

And Romano, who wore the rough wools of his barren land, whose fingers were roughened by scarcity, who could remember hunger more than he could remember satiety, felt belittled and humiliated.

"I'm not living here," Romano teemed. "You'll have to rope my fucking carcass to the ceiling if you want me to live here, because _no way in hell_ am I going to live in this house."

"Look, Lovi, I think this here would be nice for a tomato patch. And maybe even some eggplants," Spain was already walking towards the small stretch of grass in the garden. "And you can grow basil at the corners so you can perfume the garden."

Romano wanted to tear his hair out. "Did you not listen to a word I just said?"

Spain was kneeling by the soil, feeling the texture with his long, scarred fingers. "It's a bit dry, though, but I think I saw a small gardening shop when we were driving in."

"You know what? You can fucking talk about the fucking garden, and make lunch for fucking Veneziano, because I know you always preferred him over me." To his horror, his voice trembled; his throat swelled with hurt, hurt tears. "And you think he's so fucking wonderful and you wouldn't care less if I used my own fucking pasta to hang myself off the fucking alps-"

Spain calmly watched on. Romano felt his head threaten to explode. He didn't know half what he was saying only that he wanted to say it, scream it, rip it out of his skin, bleed it all over the floor.

Veneziano was always better. Even when they were children, Veneziano was better. Even Spain- and Romano hated, _hated_ admitting this- the only person who Romano was close to, the only person Romano trusted, the only person Romano felt safe with, had once wanted Veneziano over him.

And he was afraid that a few more minutes in Veneziano's company would make Spain remember that and leave him.

"Oh look, Lovi!" Spain cheerfully pointed to a small sprig of lavender miraculously pushing through the coarse soil. "It's your favourite, isn't it?"

Romano pelted his shoe at Spain's head and stormed away.

* * *

Italy sat in the living room floor, so he wouldn't stain the sofa with tomato, and let Hungary wash the soft flesh out of his hair.

"I didn't do anything, really! I was only asking if it's the one he meant because I had three different types of saffron and I wasn't sure which one he was talking about. And I woke up really early to buy the veal and the big butcher man said it was the best one because I told him I wanted the best for my brother- and he told me everyone liked his veal because he fed all the cows in the mountains himself- and I really like the mountains because there's a lot of mountains next to Turin and I used to visit Turin all the time in the winter-" Italy suddenly shot up to a stand. "I know: I'm going to ask Germany."

Hungary pulled him down. "I don't think that's a good idea, Feli."

Italy stood back up. "But why not? Germany's my best friend! He's smart and big and blonde and knows everything!"

"Not a good idea," Hungary pulled him back down. "Trust me."

Italy sprang up again. "Then I'll ask Mr Austria." He had a funny accent, just like Germany, so he was bound to be just as helpful.

"The only thing Roderich will do is tell you off for staining his cravat," he was unfortunately in the way when Romano kicked an entire bowl of tomato sauce at Italy's head. "How about we think about cleaning up the mess in the kitchen?"

"No," sighed Italy. "I don't like cleaning. Germany and Japan usually do that for me." Italy worriedly twiddled his thumbs. "Why do you think Romano got so mad? It's not just because of the saffron right? Is he allergic to saffron? Is that why he didn't want it?"

He had never lived with Romano so he wouldn't know. Even during the Second World War, when they all moved into Germany's house, Romano spent more time sneaking out and causing problems than staying with Italy and helping.

_Fottuto fascista_, fucking fascist, Romano had hissed when Italy had pointed a gun at his brother's heart.

But Italy slammed the memory shut and locked it with fearful fingers. He thought of lavender instead; of Romano's olive-skin when they used to swim in the river as children; of Romano's fingers, brown and scarred, as they trimmed vines and felt the coarse texture of the soil.

"Hey, _pezzo di merda_," Romano snapped his fingers. He was standing by the archway of the cream living room, impatient. "Get off your stupid ass. _Andiamo_."

Italy sniffled. "Why?"

_"Don't you want to fucking eat or what?_ I'm fucking starving. Get off your stupid ass and help me peel the fucking tomatoes."

Italy felt like a hundred stars. He twittered to his brother, arms spread like a bird, until Romano threatened to break his arms and use them as breadsticks. But Italy wasn't deterred; they were on speaking terms again.

Italy sat as close to Romano as possible, shoulder brushing against shoulder, jabbering about how hot Roma was and how different it was to Venice, how really old the roads were when compared to Milan and how sparse the surroundings were when compared to Florence. He didn't notice his brother wincing, a tightly wound coil, ready to spring at the wrong moment.

But Italy was too happy. They grated Parmesan and peeled tomatoes and crushed garlic and chopped parsley and it felt nice. Sure they had to prep the food on the staircase because the kitchen had to be stripped, mopped and polished, but it felt nice nonetheless.

"It's been so long since I had a big brother to cook with. It feels so nice," hummed Italy.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"We should do it everyday! I also want to walk with you down the markets in the morning and I want to visit the old coliseum that Grandpa Rome used to take us to and I want to buy new shoes, so we should also go there together. Oh! There's a nice place we can have gelato, I remember seeing it years ago and it's still here, it's so funny!"

Romano frowned. He looked so different when he frowned. He looked almost like he did when they were children, small and frail in his long white robe, before he had been snatched out of Italy's arms.

But Italy would rather have Romano scream at him than frown at him. When his brother was this quiet, this despondent, it reminded Italy too much of the war, the pointed gun and the way his brother had hissed: _fottuto fascista_, fucking fascist, before the trigger was pulled.

"Romano?" said Italy tentatively.

Romano snapped his fingers. "Strain the pasta. _Andiamo_. Come on."

* * *

They ate outside on the terrace, on the old, rusty chairs and tables that had yet to be replaced. But they coated the surface with one of the sheets used to cover the furniture and bunched the rest into makeshift pillows for the chairs. The food was simple, delicious, because Romano was always the better cook and the wine was rich, tannic, classy, because Italy always had better foretaste.

Spain and Hungary flirtatiously carried the conversation, leaning towards each other, heads tilted, glances playful. Austria anxiously fidgeted, a worried crease settling between his brows. Italy tried to reach out to his brother but Romano was absently pushing at his pasta, not really eating, a sad, faraway look shadowing his dark, dark eyes.

Spain offered to make coffee and Hungary followed suit with the plates. They were already halfway towards the kitchen that overlooked the terrace by the time Austria realized the imminent risk of losing his fiancée to another man. But Austria leaving the table meant that Italy and Romano would be on their own- and Italy didn't think he could bear anymore of Romano's out-of-character silence.

So, he grabbed the empty wine glasses and jumped off to the kitchen before Austria had the chance to stand.

Spain had a moka pot over the stove, casually smoking a cigarette as he leaned by the counter, green eyes glancing over at the coffee to make sure it didn't bubble and burn. Hungary was sitting up on the counter, floral dress fluttering at her ankles, and extended her arms to Italy as he came through the door.

"Did Austria try to run after me?" asked Hungary.

"_Si_, but I ran before he had the chance to reach the kitchen," replied Italy. He tilted his head. "Why?"

Hungary threw her head back and gave a raucous laugh. Spain looked utterly delighted. He gave her a victorious high five.

"Oooooh!" Italy's little eyes widened. "This whole time you were doing it on purpose-"

"Shhhh!" Hungary tiptoed to the backdoor of the kitchen and closed it. Her hair bounced after, big and brown, laced with ribbon and flower. "It's just to get him fired up a bit- revive the young, possessive man inside him, you know?"

"Nothing can ignite passion in man like jealousy," said Spain knowingly. "I bet the sex is even better."

Hungary literally cackled. "You have no idea."

Italy wondered if there was some twisted way that would work with his brother but he felt spent for ideas. From the window, he could spot Romano, hand-on-cheek, nodding absently to something Austria was saying. Then, he noticed the tomato stains all over the light-coloured wood of the windowpane, almost as dry as splattered blood.

* * *

The only reason Romano decided to ignore his brother's pompous idiocy and get started on that goddamned lunch was because of that sprig of lavender.

Because Veneziano used to smell like lavender.

They used to roll down hills as children and sleep next to each other under the sultry, summer sun; by cool streams; under the safe sky owned by their grandfather. His brother had been smaller than him and his little fingers would curl around Romano's sleeve, hair nuzzling against Romano's cheeks, scented sweet by olive soap.

And Romano had loved him. God, how Romano had loved him.

But Veneziano grew up worlds away. His cities were too different, his accent was too sharp, his food, his clothes, his skin, his _scent_\- all of it was different. And no matter how nice Veneziano was trying to be right now, Romano couldn't forget how difficult he had been in the past.

Time and time again, whenever Romano had reached out, Veneziano would take his hand- only to turn and stab him in the back. It happened countlessly during the Risorgimento. It happened countlessly during the great wars. It was bound to happen again.

"It's been such a long time since I had a big brother to sleep with!" beamed Veneziano.

"And who the hell said you were going to sleep here?" snapped Romano. "Get the fuck out and sleep in your own goddamn bed."

"But sleeping alone is no fun! I get really sad and really scared and really lonely but whenever I sleep with Ja-"

Veneziano clamped his mouth shut but Romano had a very good idea about what his brother had intended to say. His eye twitched. His jaw clicked.

"Finish that fucking sentence, I dare you."

"I'm going to open the windows. It's really hot isn't it? I'm also going to get a jug of water from downstairs. I'm really thirsty. Are you thirsty? I think you're thirsty so I'm going to bring two glasses just in case."

_"I said finish that fucking sentence!" _

"But if I finish it you're going to get really mad and then you're going to beat me again and my head already hurts from when you threw the bag of onions at me."

Romano grabbed him by his shirt. "You know what else is going to hurt if you don't _finish that fucking sentence_-"

And before he knew it, he was sobbing his eyes out because, _dammit_, he didn't want to be here, in this room, with his brother. He wanted to be back in Napoli, in that little farmhouse that smelled like tomatoes, lavender and shit; or in Madrid, with Antonio, smoking out on the porch or walking downtown or picking up girls or doing anything, _anything, _other than stay here and listen to how much his brother liked that fucking German over him.

"Don't cry, Romano! I'm so sorry- please don't cry-"

Romano punched him. Veneziano punched him back so _fucking hard_ that he lost his balance and hit his jaw against the cabinet.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit that hard- I panicked- I'm so sorry! Romano, are you okay? I"

But Romano shakily stood, hand on his swollen cheek, and spat out a tooth.

A fucking tooth.

Veneziano held up his hands. He was as white as a sheet.

_"Mi dispiaci_," he squeaked.

If Romano was angry before, he was _livid _now. He wrestled his brother onto the floor and, come hell or high water, he was going to pull out Veneziano's tooth with his bare fingers because, god-fucking-dammit, that _fucking hurt_. Veneziano was writhing, screaming, trying to grab hold of his wrists and Romano was screaming, crying, trying to land a head-butt.

But there was a ripping sound and he caught sight of a knotted scar in the middle of his brother's bare chest.

An ice-cold bucket of water splashed over Romano's head. He lurched away. Nausea knotted his stomach. He sped to the bathroom, doubled over the toilet and puked.

Romano remembered that hot, humid evening, not unlike tonight, and the steely cold of the gun tucked into his vest. He remembered the booming echo of the gunshot and the swathing warmth of spilt blood and the sound of their bodies as he dragged, dragged, dragged across the open stretch of war-torn Berlin.

* * *

**AN:**

**Just a few cultural points!**

**There is a very distinct cultural difference between North and South Italy. When it comes to food, Northern Italy has more cream-based, buttery dishes with exotic/expensive ingredients (saffron, veal, venison) and better wines, highlighting how much richer the North is vs South Italy, which is a lot poorer, that has a simpler cuisine with more vegetables and seafood rather than any meats.**

**The reunification is a bit of a mess- really confusing- but, in a nutshell, there was a lot of Veneziano trying to fight against Austria (by allying with France and Prussia) and Romano trying to fight against Spain (all on his own, bless). But, when the two italies finally came together in the late 1800s, they realized that their languages were different (what we know as Italian today is actual Tuscan- southern Italian cities would've spoken a different language altogether), their economies were different ( being poverty stricken and simple farmland vs industrialised ) as was their education (illiterate in the south) and their healthcare (more disease in the south) so… **

**The north began seeing the south as just this big, barbaric burden and the south saw the north as Germanic bootlickers who lacked traditional values. **

**So, they began attacking each other :(**

**As for Spain and Hungary's camaraderie… no historical point there xD I feel they'd make such good bros. **

**Hoped you enjoyed that! Reviews make my day 3**


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